James Bond Meets General Hospital
by Celli
Summary: Eric mopes. And swears a lot. Bad Eric.


Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome.   
celli@fanfic101.com   
Category: General. Some humor, I hope.  
Rating: PG-13 for Eric's bad language.  
Pairing: Implied mild S/V.  
Spoilers: Through "Trust Me."  
Summary: Eric mopes. And swears a lot.  
Archiving: Cover Me, and my site (www.fanfic101.com);   
anyone else please just let me know.  
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various   
other people with lawyers. This means that neither Eric  
nor Vaughn belong to me. Why, cruel world?  
Notes: Seriously, if I thanked everyone who encouraged me,  
it'd be longer than the fic. So I'll 'specially thank JenC  
for the beta and the blog gang for the prodding. You rock.  
  
***  
  
James Bond Meets General Hospital  
by Celli Lane  
  
***  
  
I am tired.  
  
God. Damn. Am I tired.  
  
I've been lying in the hospital bed from hell for the   
last...I don't know, actually...for-fucking-ever. Oh,   
except the times they come to get me for physical therapy.   
Which is torture beyond reason, but at least then I have an   
excuse for being tired.  
  
No, apparently just being shot takes it out of you. Who   
knew?  
  
Vaughn comes bounding in the door. "Hey, Eric, how's it   
going?"  
  
I'd tell him, but a) it hurts to talk, and b) he doesn't   
really want to know. So I just shrug.  
  
He launches into his usual tale of the day's events. I   
tell you, I know more now than I did when I was at work   
everyday. I admit, I'm fascinated by all the stories.   
It's starting to sound more like James Bond meets General   
Hospital.  
  
Come on, I'm not the only one half-convinced that Sloane is   
actually Sydney's father. And he's going to show up   
someday with a black mask and a scuba apparatus. "Join me,   
Sydneeeeeeey."  
  
...or possibly I need to stop pushing the painkiller   
button. Whatever.  
  
Apparently Sydney's having some trouble with her parents.   
Poor baby. Apparently there are sociopaths on both sides   
of the family tree. And she's sad, and she's angsty, and--  
ooh! She hugged Vaughn. This must be described in detail.   
I'd vomit, but it hurts my throat.  
  
Finally I wave him over. "Hey. Mike."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Confession."  
  
He gets a funny look on his face. I shake my head. "Not   
religious."  
  
"Um...okay."  
  
"Don't care about Sydney."  
  
Dude, he looks like I smacked him one. File that away for   
reference...'cause God knows I want to sometimes.  
  
"Don't care about Mommy and Daddy."  
  
He's starting to lean back from me. But he can still hear   
me.  
  
"Talk about something not work. Not Bristow."  
  
He stares down at me. "I...I'm sorry."  
  
He turns and leaves, and if I could yell after him I would.   
Goddammit, she *shot* me! Why do I have to be nice? I   
went along for mission support and I got fuckin' shot!  
  
She shot me.  
  
Shit, now I'm all guilty. And I'm still tired.  
  
***  
  
Physical therapy is almost a distraction. Hell, the pain   
in my neck and my head and my back and whatever, it's just   
pain.  
  
Guilt sucks.  
  
***  
  
Okay, now I'm *really* tired.  
  
And I'm still hurting.  
  
And that painkiller button's looking damned attractive.  
  
Um, did Sydney Bristow just walk into my room? Or am I   
just completely, you know, high?  
  
She crosses her arms and glares at me. What the fuck does   
she want? An argument? I sound impressively shitty. A   
catfight? I could hit her with my IV stand.  
  
"What did you say to Vaughn?"  
  
I try to communicate huh? with body language.  
  
"You upset him. He won't say why, but he came back   
from visiting you not talking to m--anyone."  
  
So sorry I put a damper on their budding...whatever.  
  
"You know, he was in the ICU waiting room for three whole   
days when we brought you in. He'd come out for briefings   
and that was it. He slept on the floor. Tanya from the   
typing pool was bringing him food. He didn't leave until   
they promised him you'd live. He hasn't missed a day's   
visit unless he was in another freaking country."  
  
And I made him feel like shit.  
  
"And you make him feel like shit."  
  
I blink. A lot. I don't think I've ever heard her swear   
before. I'll have to ask Vaughn if she was like this under   
pressure...except, of course, I just told him not to talk   
about her. Plus he's not talking to me. This is all very   
complicated.  
  
"And you know Vaughn, he thinks this is all his fault   
anyway. You can read it in his forehead wrinkles."  
  
I open my mouth to laugh before I remember who I'm talking   
to.  
  
"It's not. It was my mission. And my...you know, mother."   
She drops her head, and that fantastic sweep of hair covers   
her face.  
  
"It's okay that you don't like me," the hair says.   
Generous of it. "I'm not very good for you. I'm not very   
good for...I'm sort of a health hazard. I expect a warning   
from the Surgeon General's office any day now. But he's   
your friend."  
  
She tosses something that lands squarely in my lap and   
walks out.  
  
My lucky yo-yo. I had it in the pocket of my flak jacket   
when Derevko shot me. It's older than me and has chipped   
paint, so I can always find it by feel. Except....I check   
it again. The paint is wearing off in new spots.  
  
I run it through my fingers for a long time. Someone's   
been using it for a worry stone, and it wasn't Sydney   
Bristow.  
  
Dammit. Goddammit.  
  
I ring for a nurse. I need paper. At least with my   
throat, uh, shot, I can get away with apologizing in   
writing.  
  
--the end-- 


End file.
